The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘What did that man – this Govinda Shauri – want?’ she had asked at the end of the narration.

  ‘He says he has a plan. He wants the world to be united by knowledge, by the light of reason and learning. He aims to do what we have been doing here in Elis – sharing knowledge, spreading it – and asks for my help so that both our realms may prosper.’

  ‘Hah! Another idealist who dreams of changing the world. His plan, can it even work?’

  Pyrrho had drawn a deep breath. ‘I do not know. This much I will admit – I have never seen a man so rational and immaculate in his thought as he. If anyone can change the world, he can. But whether it will work I do not know. The question he left me with is this: Would I be able to live with not trying?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Philista had said. ‘But that is because I would never be able to look my teacher in the eye if I didn’t.’

  To that, Pyrrho had laughed and said, ‘All right. Send for Govinda Shauri. No, wait. Not immediately. Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow. Let him fester for a day, and then we shall send for him and hear him out completely.’

  And so began a long association – part friendship, part collegial affinity and part desire.

  Philista wished, with a little regret, that her reasons for seeking him out over the seas after nearly twenty years had not been different. But it was not attraction, whether physical or otherwise, that had brought her to Aryavarta. Her fellow scholars – the Firewrights of Elis, as Govinda had jestingly referred to them – had placed much of their faith in Govinda’s proposed plan, in what he had averred would be beneficial to both Yavana and Aryavarta, and perhaps even beyond. Pyrrho, however, had not shirked from pointing out the risks, over and over again.

  ‘If all goes as you say, Govinda, both our lands will prosper. Craft and knowledge shall drive both our civilizations to great heights. If, however, things do not progress as you promise, it will without doubt lead our nations towards war. History teaches us that where power fails to lead to prosperity and peace, it inevitably engenders envy, fear and conflict.’

  ‘Trust in the goodness of men and women, Acharya,’ Govinda had said. ‘Trust in yourself.’

  In spite of herself, it broke Philista to admit that it was this trust, this faith in humanity, that Govinda had now lost. His plan had fallen apart, and there was nothing he could do to set things right. Worse, he was not even willing to try. Already, Aryavarta stood splintered by fear and distrust, and its many nations were competing to build their armies and arsenals. And Govinda no longer cared where it would lead them. He was broken, just as his realm was broken, the remains of a dream gone horribly wrong. It was, Philista knew, the beginning of the end, of the inevitable erosion of a way of life. And nowhere was it more obvious than in Dwaraka.

  The city-state that Govinda and Balabadra had built with love and devotion, was now a shadow of its former self. In appearance, Dwaraka lacked nothing of its former glory, but Philista could see the changes, the political conspiracies and skewed views of equality, goodness and justice. The Council was no longer the democratic and representative body it had once averred to be. Kritavarman, Bhurisravas and the other Yadu princes who had given up their sovereignty as vassal princes to join the Confederation of Yadu Nations had taken the opportunity to reassert their dominance, rebuild their personal armies and replenish their personal coffers. Dwaraka was perhaps on the verge of descending into civil war, and that, Philista knew, would be the spark that would light the huge blaze in which Aryavarta would burn as would the Yavana lands, the lands she called home.

  There is nothing left to do but act. Thus resolved, Philista turned yet again to glance at the forest behind her. This time she saw the dark outline of a horse and rider. She did not move till the man stepped out from the cover of the trees and into the moonlight.

  The sight of Jayadrath, king of Sindhu, filled Philista with revulsion. She had overheard, unseen, Balabadra’s careful recounting of the attack on Panchali, and could never forget the sight of Govinda on his knees, broken and utterly devastated. Finding a modicum of satisfaction in the fact that Jayadrath looked a little bruised from his encounter, she stepped forward to greet him.

  ‘Mahamatra, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I regret that I am not in a position to offer you any refreshment or other hospitality. But such are our circumstances.’

  Philista found such politeness from a man of Jayadrath’s reputation amusing, but she kept a straight face and came to the point. ‘What are the terms? What do you want?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘Govinda Shauri.’

  ‘And what do I get in return?’

  ‘The promise of peace with Aryavarta’s future Emperor. He sends you a scroll. It is written in your language so you may share it with your…superiors.’

  Philista took the proferred object and ran her eyes over it. ‘It is neither in his hand, nor does it bear his seal.’

  ‘Of course not. He’s not a fool.’

  ‘But I am, to take him at his word?’

  Jayadrath frowned. ‘Surely you’ve been here long enough to know that to an Arya truth is not a negotiable quality.’

  ‘Negotiable, no. But it is adaptable – that much I have learnt.’

  ‘Hence he sends his terms and assurances in writing.’

  Philista rolled up the scroll and tapped it against her open palm as she considered the offer. She said, ‘Is he that valuable to you? Govinda Shauri? These are generous terms to offer in exchange for the life of one man.’

  ‘We need one other thing. Information…of a particular kind.’

  ‘And Govinda Shauri has it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Jayadrath shook his head. ‘First, I need your word that you will fulfil this task. Only then can I tell you more. Now tell me, can you do this?’

  Philista gave him a doubtful look. ‘You know it’s not easy. If it were, you wouldn’t have sought my help.’

  ‘It is not impossible either. But we would rather that our involvement in this be kept a secret – even from the Yadus leader we are inclined to think of as our allies.’

  ‘You mean Kritavarman and Bhurisravas. What makes you think I want them for enemies?’

  Jayadrath’s lips curved in a leering smile. ‘It won’t make a difference. Do this, and we throw our support behind you. You an your people will have everything to gain.’

  Philista said, ‘It can’t be done in Dwaraka. We need to get him out of there. He is under guard on the Council’s orders…’

  ‘If you invite him to your ship… I mean, it is well known that you…’

  Jayadrath’s tone made Philista’s head buzz with anger. She was about to protest against the insinuations, but then decided not to waste her time. ‘If I invite him, the Council will certainly not let him leave Dwaraka. They don’t trust me and might even suspect that I am planning to help him escape. On the other hand, if you can get one of the traders to ask for Govinda’s services – say with a ship’s repairs or such…make it about money… The Council doesn’t like to lose any. Let me know which ship. I will take care of the rest.’

  ‘Chop his body into pieces and throw it into the sea. That way it won’t wash ashore and everyone will think he has escaped. Particularly, if your involvement is not known and you stay at Dwaraka a while to mourn him…’

  The urge to hit Jayadrath hard, to chop him into bits and throw him off the cliff, coursed through Philista. She fought it back, breathing hard from the effort, and managed a single nod.

  Jayadrath raised an eyebrow at her reaction but dismissed it. He continued, ‘All right. As for the information we want…’

  Philista felt her heart thunder in her chest as Jayadrath told her what it was that he was looking for. She had only to hear the beginning of it before her mind began speeding through many horrible possibilities, including the thought that possessing such a powerful weapon might tempt Jayadrath to turn against his own allies and his liege-lord. Yet she felt grateful
for the cold, benumbing fear, for it helped her pretend that her guilt was assuaged. She had no choice but to betray Govinda.

  When Jayadrath finally left, she shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. One man for my homeland…it is a reasonable trade. She had been with Govinda long enough to know that if he had been in her place he would have done the same. It helped Philista make her peace with what would happen next.

  17

  THE DISCOVERY HAD BEEN UNEXPECTED. DHRSTYADYMN HAD ridden east, as Asvattama had directed, and begun scouring the region without much result. Shikandin was a hard man to find if he did not wish to be found. Dhrstyadymn would have counted it his good fortune but knew it was a matter of patience and persistence when he finally heard a piece of gossip in a small drinking-house about arson and rebellion in the Anga kingdom. The fact that no one had ever seen the man, or men, responsible for the acts had been enough to convince Dhrstyadymn that he had found Shikandin.

  Dhrstyadymn headed to Anga, but instead of making his way to the capital, he had followed the rumours to a corner of the kingdom that adjoined the nation of Kashi. It gave him an idea. He crossed over into Kashi and sought the help of the captain of a small border garrison, claiming that he was a Panchala soldier in pursuit of a wanted man. As he had expected, the captain was happy to assist, if only to demonstrate how the warriors of Kashi were more efficient than that of Panchala. In the same vein, the captain arranged for all the permissions needed to take their search across the border and into Anga.

  Three days later, they came upon the tracks of a single man, hardly muhurttas old. They followed the trail to the scene of a massacre in progress. Dhrstyadymn had no doubt, even from their unobtrusive distance atop a small hill, that it was Shikandin. He watched as his brother methodically disposed of the guards around the simple hut-like structure and he wondered whether he had been right to have come looking for him, after all.

  The Kashi captain escorting him intruded on his thoughts. ‘You see, this could hardly be the fellow you’re looking for. This man is a rebel, a spy the Anga forces have been trying to get their hands on for ages now. Finally, he walks into their trap.’

  ‘Trap? Oh please. There are hardly any men positioned around. What sort of a sorry trap is that?’

  ‘There are soldiers hiding in the woods, on the other side. Not many, because nearly all of Anga’s troops have been deployed westwards. In any case, the soldiers are not needed – they intend to kill this rebel, not capture him. You see, this man follows a pattern. He kills the guards and destroys the workshop they protect. This time he is in for a shock… Anyway, make yourself comfortable. The Angas won’t want us to interfere, not in this one. The border commandant told me to make sure we stayed out of the way.’

  One word in all of the captain’s speech caught Dhrstyadymn’s attention. ‘Workshop?’ he asked.

  The captain was taken aback. ‘Yes. Workshop…forge. Oh, by Hara, you really are a novice aren’t you? Else you’d know…unless, you Panchalas are such fools that you’re the only nation in Aryavarta that isn’t building up its armouries…’ Before the garrulous man could finish, Dhrstyadymn drew a dagger from his waist-sash and plunged it directly into the man’s heart. He put his hand over the dying captain’s mouth, in case he cried out, but it was not necessary. The man was dead in an instant.

  Dhrstyadymn began sprinting down the gentle slope. He thought of calling out, but decided against it, since he might alert the other waiting soldiers. He saw that Shikandin was done with the last of the guards around the forge, and was making his way towards the dark doorway.

  A blast of heat, like thunder and lightning, exploded out from the bowels of the earth, and Dhrstyadymn felt himself thrown backwards and on to the ground. He pulled himself up, horrified to find that the forge, if it was that, had been reduced to burning rubble. By the light of the fire, he saw Shikandin’s still outline on the ground, his limbs splayed at an awkward angle. With a yell that was part rage and part fear, Dhrstyadymn ran to his brother. He was just in time, for more Anga soliders poured out of the woods.

  Dhrstyadymn counted nine of them. He skidded to a halt as he reached where Shikandin lay, and took up a position with his bow. He knew he did not have much time, but this was his only chance to reduce the enemy’s numbers as much as possible before they got too close. He let his arrows fly in quick succession, moving without hesitation from one target to the next. He managed to down seven men, one of them taking two arrows to fall, before the remaining two were upon him. Letting his bow fall, Dhrstyadymn drew his sword and met them head-on.

  Metal rang against metal, and birds stirred near and far, taking to the air with chilling shrieks. Dhrstyadymn added a cry of his own as he felt a burning pain run from his left shoulder all the way down his arm and back. His vision blurred, but as he staggered back he realized that two men had come at him from the side. Only then did he realize what an odd number nine was. Why hadn’t it occurred to him earlier? A group of ten, with the eleventh in command, was a basic army unit. His failure to see the obvious sent panic coursing through him. He pushed it out of his mind. Four against one. I can do this. But even as he made the assertion, he felt the heavy, cloying emptiness of doubt spread through his body, slow down his limbs. He told himself it was impossible, that no weapon, nothing but his mind could defeat his own will. But his will was fast fading.

  This is why. This is why Dron did not think me worthy. It does not matter how many years I train, how hard I try. I lack a warrior’s spirit. I was willing to doubt my own brother. I am not worthy.

  Blood trailed from his hands, his wrists, down his arms. From the corner of his eye, he could see the drops falling off his elbow and on to the mossy earth, creating dark, wet patches. He thought of Panchali, of the dark stains on her body and robe as she was dragged through the halls of Hastina. He thought he heard a crowd far away, cheering and screaming, but all he felt was silence. Silence, and then the small voice that was always there, telling him to let go, to lose, because he would be defeated anyway. He tried not to listen to it but the voice, his voice, grew louder and louder till it was shouting in his ear. It taunted him, broke him and rent his very being till he knew that giving up was all he had to do, and he would know relief, the lightness and freedom he constantly longed for. He would have let go at that very instant, except that one of the four men made the mistake of turning away from Dhrstyadymn to kick the prone Shikandin hard in the ribs out of sheer malice.

  Dhrstyadymn’s heart quailed as Shikandin neither stirred nor made a sound. With a yell of rage he threw himself at the man who had dared touch his brother. Anger made him near-invincible. He was aware of a whiplike stinging again, this time on the back of his thigh, but he didn’t care, snarling in satisfaction as the first soldier went down with a dazed look on his face and Dhrstyadymn’s dagger in his throat. Another burst of pain, and Dhrstyadymn realized his mistake. Intent on the first soldier, he had nearly ignored the other three.

  Childish mistakes! Dron’s harsh reprimands came to mind. He always made childish mistakes such as these, errors that even a boy smaller than a sword knew not to make.

  Your anger is your strength. Right now it controls you. You will have to learn to control it.

  ‘Aaaaah!’ the cry was a roar, not of physical pain but a sensation far more unbearable. Dhrstyadymn ran his sword clean through the first man, and then lashed out at the second soldier, his back turned completely to the third. If the choice was between anger and dismay, he would gladly choose anger; he would gladly go down ablaze than live without hope. In his fury, he had no clear notion of what he was doing, but a few moments later, the second man lay at his feet, dead. But he too had paid the price. He knew he had been slashed at least six times and stabbed at least once. His head throbbed and spun from exertion. His stomach heaved, threatening to bring up a few inner parts along with the bile in his chest and it was all he could do to stand. His eyes closed as he swayed from side to side. He tried to hold on, but felt his swor
d slide out of his grasp. It seemed to fall a long, long way, as though the earth had opened up to claim it deep inside her core. Dhrstyadymn knew she awaited him the same way.

  The last man rushed at him and slashed downwards, right on target towards his neck. Dhrstyadymn felt his knees buckle but remained upright and caught the sword with both hands. It remained inches away from his head. All his training told him that he ought to hold tight and try to sidestep the man, whirl around him, pull his arm into a twist which could give him the upper hand and then he could try to fight on… He forced himself to keep his fingers curled around the blade, ignoring the unbearable pain as the soldier tried his best to rip his sword out from his grasp.

  Give up! It will all be over! You cannot do this anyway! You are nothing!

  Dhrstyadymn could feel his strength ebbing away as his blood fell, drop by leisurely drop, each speck heavy and rounded with its own weight, each globe shimmering red with life. The next few moments lasted an eternity. Time, he thought, had decided to wait, while his entire being turned into an ocean of red, a cohesive union of millions. Like rain. Each drop complete in itself. He closed his eyes. I am what I am, he told himself, neither the slayer nor the slain, nothing more and nothing less. Trusting in the instinct that spoke to him without words, he let go of the blade.

  Before the soldier could react, Dhrstyadymn turned and stepped in close, mimicking the soldier’s stance like a live shadow. Grabbing the man’s wrist with his left hand, he added his own strength to his swing. He heard a scream. It sounded like him, yet it was not completely human. He felt the soft resistance of flesh, the iron tang of blood as it filled his mouth, the warmth of it satisfying in its own way, as it drenched his face and flew generously down his chest. The blade stopped inches from his own neck, even as his right hand came up and across in a precautionary gesture, his palm meeting the sharp edge before it could touch him. He let the headless torso fall to the ground and stood as he was, his chest heaving. Slowly, the world stopped spinning.